


Three fields to cross

by dotfic



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Hypothermia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 08:04:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/280700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's old war injury is aching, there is sheep dung crusted on the soles of his boots, and he's finding it very difficult at that particular moment not to punch Holmes in the face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three fields to cross

**Author's Note:**

  * For [innie_darling (innie)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/gifts).



> a/n: Written for innie_darling's birthday and for my kissbingo table, prompt location: sunrise. Set in the Guy Ritchie movieverse, title by Robert Browning. Thank you to pheebs1 for the britpicking.

John's old war injury is aching, there is sheep dung crusted on the soles of his boots, and he's finding it very difficult at that particular moment not to punch Holmes in the face.

"What is it?" Holmes asks, voice low and calm as they walk as fast as they can up a slope.

They have no lantern, but there are stars, otherwise they'd be bumbling through the wilds of Yorkshire in the dark.

"Nothing," John says, clenching his jaw because the Yorkshire night is dank and chilly, not because he's at all annoyed. He's trying not to shiver. His wool coat that was much too hot during the train ride yesterday now seems thin.

"It's obviously not nothing." Holmes sounds a touch petulant, a little sullen. "You haven't said a word for miles."

The rush of a waterfall sounds not far off, somewhere beyond a looming wall of rock.

"I am being practical, and saving my breath so that we can reach civilization alive." John's boots slip on the damp grass. He stumbles, catches himself, and notices Holmes turning, reaching out to him quickly, but John's already past him, ignoring his offered hand.

"Very sensible of you, Watson," says Holmes, "but it's getting dull walking and walking without any conversation."

"We wouldn't have to be walking and walking if you hadn't been an arrogant git convinced that he could never be wrong about anything."

They reach a stone wall and Holmes stops to sit down. He begins unlacing his boot without looking at John, tugs it off, and shakes out what John assumes is a pebble; something ticks against the stones.

"We haven't heard the dogs after us for the past half an hour or so," Holmes says, voice clipped, ignoring what John said. His tone is confident, if he's arranged this himself.

Which is likely, damn him. He would have calculated how long before the dogs might tire, and John noticed how Holmes led them to walk the bed of a stream, masking their scent.

John's leg aches. Yorkshire is nothing like the most punishing land John has had to march across, and under worse conditions--no one is shooting at them. Not right that second, at least.

He sits down, stone rough beneath him, smelling of moss. Holmes' leg brushes his, and it's shockingly warm. Holmes has his revolver in his hand, blunt fingers tight around the grip. It's the only weapon they still have on them, what with one thing and another. John misses the weight of his side arm, regrets its loss, the memory of it falling down into the gorge. Out of bullets, it was all John could think to do to distract the dog, draw its attention off Holmes who was about to go over the edge.

Holmes puts his boot back on. They sit and rest, with the presence of the fields and woods and crags a weight pushing, too silent and dark. John likes the countryside; it's peaceful and beautiful. Yet with the terrible quiet broken only by the waterfall, and recalling Holmes' words about the sin the smiling countryside could hide in its isolation, John acutely misses the constant clatter and hum of London.

* * *

The stars vanish behind clouds that creep across the dark sky like mist over the Thames. A short while after that, it starts to rain.

It isn't a light, misting rain either, but a sudden downpour that riddles the ground with rivulets of mud among the grass and makes footing even more treacherous than it already has been. John tugs up the collar of his wool coat and ducks his head, biting back a curse. He's complained enough already that night--now he'll be the stalwart Dr. John Watson, loyal and patient and true, because that's easier than doing anything to perpetuate short tempers and cause himself and Holmes to bicker all the way back to London.

Should they live that long, of course. They haven't heard the dogs after them again, but the memory of the row of men standing in the torchlight outside the manor house, raising their shotguns, lingers with John.

 _You have a brilliant plan, of course, Holmes._

 _Yes, of course._

 _What is it?_

 _Run._

"At least we got those poor souls out of that dungeon of a cellar and away in the carriage," John says, trying to sound cheerful over the patter of rain.

Without the stars to light their way, it's difficult to see anything but vague shapes through the murk. John slips, his old injury aching worse in the rain, and almost falls in a nasty tumble that would take him down a sharp drop, but Holmes' fingers clench in a tight grip around his arm and yank him back. John stumbles against him, and for a moment they both almost go down, clinging to each other. Holmes keeps them upright--why John is always so surprised at his strength, he has no idea, but he often is. Perhaps because Holmes is so cerebral, and spends far too much time dozing in bathrobe, sleeping off the effects of whatever substance he's decided to experiment with that week.

John's heart hammers a little too fast, Holmes' breath warm against his face, before he lets go and they move down the slope.

* * *

Something is behind them, a shuffling gait audible even above the rain. They both turn simultaneously, Holmes raising his revolver. John believes there are two bullets left in the chambers.

A black-and-white spotted cow lumbers out of the gloom and passes them with strange, plodding quiet. It has no bell; maybe it fell off.

John's trousers are soaked through, his shoes full of water and mud. Holmes' wild hair is more rebellious than usual from the damp. He watches the cow go on by, his jaw working as if he is trying to come up with something astute to say, or as if he wishes he had his pipe.

"What," he says, turning towards John, as John starts laughing.

"Nothing, Holmes. The look on your face…"

"Ah. Yes. Well, I am hardly startled to see a cow in Yorkshire. Still, it wasn't what I was expecting." Holmes lowers his revolver.

"A cow," John says, and bites his lower lip to stop his laughter. "Very terrifying."

"You look pale, my dear Watson. As if you've had a fright." Holmes' tone has a light burn of mockery in it.

"Now why would I have any reason to fear, since you were ready to shoot the cow so valiantly in my defense?"

"Anything for you, Watson," Holmes says, with a hint of nitric acid to it and yet the underlying fondness is his voice is as warm as if he'd grasped John's shoulder.

* * *

A half-ruined stone house is ahead of them, parts of it sagging as if the dirt is trying to reclaim it as its own. The roof is mostly intact, from what little John can make out in the darkness.

They duck inside and in the absence of any furniture save for one broken wooden chair stuck forlornly in the corner, they sit on the floor, backs against the wall. John shoves his cold fingers deep into his pockets.

Holmes leans his head back and closes his eyes, as calm as if they were in their rooms at 221B.

"We might as well stay here for a bit and rest," John says. "They can't track us because of the rain."

"We should use the rain to our advantage and keep going." Holmes keeps his eyes closed.

"Continuing on to the point of exhaustion so they can easily overtake us, oh yes, that's an excellent plan. There is also the risk of hypothermia." John lets a shudder go through him and tenses his muscles to make it stop. If he starts he'll shiver so hard his teeth will rattle.

Holmes opens one eye and fixes his gaze on John until he feels like a specimen in a case. "We can't be far from Bishopdale." He closes his eyes again, hands tucked under his armpits.

Slouching further down the wall, John also shuts his eyes. He'll rest for a few minutes.

The rain thuds and rushes down, dripping through the holes in the roof. After a short while, John feels a shoulder leaning against his.

He's not conscious of falling asleep but he must have. He has no idea how he winds up lying on the floor with his back against Holmes' chest and Holmes' arms wrapped around him. At least John is warmer now, Holmes' breath against his neck. The rain has stopped and it seems lighter than it did before--he supposes it must be inching towards dawn.

Holmes is snoring, loud and rude, making it difficult for John to hear if there are any dogs baying nearby. He nudges his elbow into Holmes' ribs, and Holmes makes a snuffling noise before going quiet. The air smells of wet wool and a trace of Holmes' tobacco and damp earth.

All John hears is the steady drip of residual rainwater and the deep quiet of the dales. Even the wind has gone still.

The sky through the window lightens a fraction. John should wake Holmes up so they can go find an inn, send a message to Lestrade, and tend to getting warm beds, fresh clothes, and food. Yet John is strangely comfortable where he is, despite that he's lying on a dirt floor. He doesn't feel chilled any more at all. Holmes' fingers rest against John's chest, against the folds of his coat.

A few minutes later, the first lancet of sunlight strikes the stone wall. John wriggles out from under Holmes' hands, away from the warmth of his body, with a reluctance he can't deny to himself. He sits up, the aches of sleeping in such a fashion jumping into life. His old wound doesn't hurt, however.

"Holmes." John hits his friend on the shoulder, hard.

Holmes immediately sits up, eyes wide, muscles tensed. If John didn't know better he would say Holmes hadn't really been asleep, but this was how Holmes functioned. People often misjudged him, and that was what Holmes wanted. Wiry but relatively small in stature, with his rumpled head and ill-kept facial hair and air of abstraction, but it all turned fast as a match-strike to something else. Drugs or spirits genuinely dulled him at times, and even then, John has seen his body and mind move faster or more precisely than any human he's ever known.

"Good morning, Watson," Holmes says, lips quirking in a smile.

The ray of sunlight has moved so it falls over him, washing his graying dark hair and the side of his face in gold. His face is very near John's, even if John hardly remembers either of them moving closer. It seems the most natural thing in the world to move another inch, before Holmes' mouth, dry and cool, is over his, with the rough scratch of his beard against John's face. Holmes' fingers come up to take hold of the collar of John's coat to pull him closer, and John complies. His palm presses against Holmes' thigh a moment before they pull apart.

"Good morning, Holmes," John says.

"We don't have time for this now, do we," Holmes says sadly, a little boy told he can't have ice cream until after dinner.

"Afraid not. We slept longer than we should have. People trying to murder us and all that."

"Later, perhaps." Holmes is on his feet, rubbing his hands over his face, stretching.

"Perhaps."

John watches Holmes walk out into the morning, sunlight framing him into shadow for a moment, and then he too gets to his feet, and follows.


End file.
